


Away, or A Way

by medea1313



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:45:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medea1313/pseuds/medea1313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione escapes to the Muggle world after breaking up with Ron, tries to find where she belongs, falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away, or A Way

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking to a friend about who Hermione really should have ended up with and came to the conclusion that the wizarding world is just too small. Then this got stuck in my head and insisted on being written! Hope you enjoy.

Jasper never minded about the magic, per se.

Hermione had meant to tell him when it seemed “really serious,” which she had decided, after the first time they had sex, meant one year. If they made it that far, which they certainly would not do, well then she would tell him that she had magic practically dripping off her fingertips, that she spent her days in the universe’s most terrifying basement, thinking up new ways to do magic that were so top secret no one would even know about them for centuries, that she was the “smartest witch her age”… that she was a witch at all. She had lain there, cheek damp against his chest, sweaty thighs overlapping, her heart pounding with the aftermath of what felt like a whole new species of pleasure, an entirely different word deserving its own dictionary entry, and she had thought, “ _if_ it seemed really serious,” knowing that it never would. Muggle boys with awkward, eye-crinkling smiles and engineering degrees and _very good hands_ did not get serious with know-it-all witches with vast networks of scars so cleanly obliviated that not even legilimency could unearth them. So she wasn’t really lying to him, any more than to anyone else she interacted with in the Muggle world. She was just obviating — vocabulary word, not spell, how she wished sometimes that anyone else in the world would find the question of their relation to one another interesting — the need to wipe his memory later.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked then, sleepily, his hand — his _very good_ hand — cupping her chin and tilting it up toward him. At this angle she could mostly see his chin, a little pointy and faintly stubbled now. She could feel the effects of the stubble on her skin, where his fingers touched now — everything was a little raw, a little too open.

Ron would have said, “You’re thinking too much.” He hated that she couldn’t turn her brain off at moments like these, no matter his efforts to induce oblivion. Oblivion, obliviate, obviate. All from the Latin root _obviare_ , from _via_ , which meant way, and then _obviat_ , prevented? No, _oblivio_ , to forget. He felt, she supposed, that it was a failure on his part. Or else he just didn’t like that she was racing ahead while he was left there in the moment, feeling, alone.

Hermione stirred, reached up to touch Jasper’s jaw in turn, trace the line she could see. He shifted, crooked his neck so their eyes could meet. She made an effort in turn, stretching her body until her lips could replace her fingers, taste the skin of his neck, his jaw. He drew in a breath and she let one out, a little sigh. She laid her head back down in the crook of his neck and said, “I am thinking about when to tell you all my secrets.”

“All of them?” he asked. She thought he might be smiling.

“Well, the big ones.”

“Why not now?”

Why not, indeed? Hermione hated keeping secrets. She thought sometimes it might be the thing she was very worst at, of all the things life required. (On bad days, after she broke Ron’s heart, she thought there were more fundamental things wrong with her, much worse faults she could never cure, but in terms of the sort of faults one admitted to at parties, being a terrible liar was top of the list.) It had been the hardest part of her recent sojourn in the Muggle world. Even though she had worked out her story perfectly, every last detail accounted for, every possible answer with a pat response so that she could at least get the words out without sounding too stilted and caught out, it still killed her inside every time someone asked her what she did, or what school she had gone to, or when she’d moved to London. The truth came bubbling up to her lips at the most inconvenient moments, demanding to be let free. How could she ever be herself, how could anything ever be real, if she could not share with those around her the simplest basic facts about the world, about her world? But she couldn’t.

She knew it was a purely selfish desire. It would do most of them no good at all to be told things they had no frame for, no possible method for dealing with. She didn’t feel bad for the people she lied to, she felt bad for herself, because the very act of lying created a barrier between her and the people she wanted to be friends with, the people she needed to be friends with, since all her other friends were… well just slightly unavailable right now. Maybe for a long time. The Muggles were all doing just fine on their side. She was on the one stuck alone on the other, wanting to tear it to pieces, wanting to have her cake (magic) and eat it too (Muggles).

And now here was this boy, this man, with his voice a little scratchy from having a (single, he promised) smoke at the pub, and his skin pressed all up against hers, asking her to tell him her secrets. Not all of them. Just the big ones.

Hermione was also very bad at playing hard to get.

She could feel the color rising in her face, and her body wanting to squirm with the force of the words wanting to come out, even though she knew, she knew, she could not tell him. Not now. She’d just have to erase his memory. She barely even knew him. A few dates, that was all, after she met him at an old friend’s birthday party, after he asked her to go second-hand bookstoring with him on a Saturday afternoon, after they’d walked the length of Central London talking, always talking. How could she tell him? It would be terrible, terrible, very stupid, and Hermione never was stupid, not like that.

He didn’t laugh at her obvious discomfort. His hand cupped the back of her head, tried to smooth her hair but ended up tangled. He slung one leg over hers and moved her closer, her breasts smashing up against his chest, her face buried in flesh and pillow and hair. “No, no, nevermind,” he said into her ear. “I don’t even want to know. That is, I do, rather desperately, want to know everything about you, Hermione Granger, including your secrets. But I can wait. You just keep thinking about it, and when you’ve decided it’s time, you tell me, right? Right.” Then he kissed her, just behind the ear, and all the terrible feelings left her body, and she did stop thinking, for a little while.

Which is not to say she made it to a year, not at all. It did not take her long to realize that her judgment in the matter was seriously impaired, and she had no idea what “serious” meant any longer. Approximately two months into sleeping at his flat almost every night, and changing into her work robes in alleys, hidden by frantic invisibility spells, and taking much more frequent than usual breaks from work so she could find someplace her cell phone functioned because all she wanted to do was flirt with him via text message, and making everyone suspicious, wizard and Muggle alike, she finally broke down and asked her mother for advice.

What she wanted was to ask Harry. Technically, she and Harry were still “best friends.” But in reality, Ron had got Harry in the divorce, and everyone knew it. The handful of times that Hermione and Harry had got together since the break-up they had both tried to pretend as if nothing was different, talking about work, about wizarding politics, even about Muggle television, as Harry still occasionally indulged. But there always came an awkward silence, where Ron would have spoken, or a story that accidentally involved Ron and was ended abruptly in the middle as one or the other noticed. Hermione would always feel she had to ask, and Harry would always shake his head, and she would want to scream. What did that mean? No, Ron was not okay? No, it was not okay for her to ask about him? No, she could not resume her normal social life? She knew she could ask Harry anything else and he would do his best to help her. But she couldn’t ask him about her new boyfriend, couldn’t get relationship advice when he was still unable to talk to her about how she’d apparently destroyed his real best friend.

So instead she asked her mother. Her mother had been a rock since the break-up. They’d let Hermione move home until she got her own flat, and not even pestered her about eating too many sweets in the throes of her worst miseries. She and her mother had taken a long weekend away together, the first time they’d spent just the two of them since before Hermione went to school. It had been so easy to forget as she was absorbed more and more into the wizarding world, as Ron and Harry and the Order of the Pheonix became her family that she came from somewhere, and that wasn’t a bad thing. Her mother was still her mother, and still knew her better than anyone, even if she didn’t understand a thing about dark wizards or the Ministry of Magic. Most important, they’d given Hermione another world to turn to: a world that didn’t constantly remind her of what she’d lost (was “lost” the right word? Perhaps given up, or pushed away would be better. It was her choice, after all, though it hadn’t felt like much of one). She still worked in the Department of Mysteries, so she still visited the wizarding world every day, and she still used spells and read The Daily Prophet and was, in short, a full-time witch. But at the end of the day, she changed into jeans and drank a glass of normal wine, and she called her old school chums from before Hogwarts — not that she’d had many, but a few — and started socializing with Muggles again. It was more of an escape than a choice. The wizarding world was so small, and there was nowhere she could go without seeing Ron or one of his siblings, who doubtless all hated her. There was nowhere she could go where she hadn’t been with Ron a million times, good and bad. So she just left, took up a different world she had left behind, and lived two lives, and lied, and hated it. But at least she never had to lie to her mother.

“If he’s really worth spending all this time with, he’s worth telling,” her mother said, always practical. “But if he takes it well, I want you to bring him over for dinner.”

So Hermione told him. She turned red and she squirmed and he laughed at first, and then when he could see she was serious he got serious too, and all at once, after the words threatening to spill out for so long, there were no words. So she said, “Lumos,” and there was light instead, and then she transformed her teacup into a perfect china rose, and then into a real rose, and then back into a teacup.

“How did you do that?” he asked, frowning like an engineer.

“Magic,” she said.

“I’m going to want more technical details,” he said, and she smiled, and then he smiled too, and made a crazy face at her, and laughed, and said, “Okay. Just for my reference, is that the biggest secret would you say?”

Much later, Hermione realized it was possible that she could only ever have married a Muggle. As far as she could tell he thought magic was impressive and sometimes quite helpful, but he did not really know if she was any better at it than any other witch or wizard. In his eyes, she was often quite hapless. She had, by Muggle standards, a fifth-form education. She read quite a lot of Muggle history and science and literature on her own, but it wasn’t quite the same as having taken a first at Cambridge. When she first realized that she had spent her whole life trying to be the very best at everything only to end up married to a man whose skills at maths exceeded hers by several exponents, Hermione could only laugh. It was perfect. He did not resent her career or knowledge, and she did not resent his. He found it delightful to hear her stories about wizarding history and try to follow her explanations of magical theory. She loved to see how he defied the laws of physics by designing bridges and skyscrapers that did not fall down, without any magic at all.

Not that it was all so terribly easy. Though Hermione told him about being a witch after two months, she did not tell him about the war for years, and even then, only parts. She did not tell him what she had done to her parents. That, he would not find delightful. She did not tell him about the Muggle-Born Registry, or how those files still existed somewhere in the depths of the Ministry “for their historical value.” She did not tell him what she actually did all day; she was not allowed to tell anyone that, Muggle or no, and she kept her promises.

But she did tell him about the Hogwarts library, and about giants, and the story of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. She did tell him about Ron, and how she had hated herself for ceasing to love him, and resented him for not making her.

One day she took him to Diagon Alley, so he could see that it really was not just her. He wanted to take everything apart and see what made it run, even though she told him that there was nothing to be seen. She should introduce him to Mr. Weasley, she thought, they would be kindred spirits, and then she remembered: no. That couldn't be. She took his hand and led him down to Flourish and Botts, since she knew he liked bookstores, and they found an old copy of Magic for Muggles by Whillow Rainbowlight, an old witch who believed that knowledge was the key to world peace, and was also quite good at Muggle physics. Hermione insisted on buying it, since she was the only one with wizarding money, and Jasper made a joke about being a kept man, and kissed her.

When she looked up from the kiss, Ginny was standing outside watching them. Hermione quailed, but thought — you’re a Gryffindor — and made herself smile instead, and wave. To her surprise, Ginny smiled back, and after a quick glance around, came inside the store.

“Hermione Granger, where have you _been_?” Ginny demanded as soon as she was inside.

Hermione was surprised by the tone — as if Ginny didn’t know — and shrugged. “Around. Spending more time with my mum and dad, actually. How are you Ginny?”

Ginny cocked her head, frowning at her a little. “Splendid, thanks. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Hermione flushed, and hated that. She was still holding Jasper’s hand, and she squeezed it and said, “Ginny, this is Jasper Pennington. Jasper, this is Ginny Weasley. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her — she’s engaged to Harry.”

“Of course,” Jasper said warmly, “Such a pleasure.” He reached out and shook Ginny’s hand.  The younger witch was looking him up and down assessingly. He was in Muggle clothes: jeans and a faded Badly Drawn Boy t-shirt. “I’m afraid it’s mostly my fault Hermione hasn’t been available. She’s afraid if she brings me into the wizarding world, I’ll do something disastrously embarrassing and reveal my total ignorance of all important things. And I follow her everywhere, very annoyingly, so she’s rather stuck in the Muggle side of London I’m afraid.”

“The Muggle side, hmm?” Ginny repeated. “Well then we ought to meet there. Harry is just the same going in that direction — thinks he can’t take me anywhere, but of course he can, as I am a perfectly good actress. I would positively relish the opportunity to prove him wrong. But then, you don’t seem to be doing too badly yet. Fancy a pint while you’re here? Harry will be by in a bit.”

Hermione must have shot her a terrified look because Ginny made a face and fake-whispered, “Not Ron, I promise.”

Shockingly, Ginny did not seem to blame Hermione for leaving Ron. At least, she wasn’t acting like it. Hermione looked to Jasper who said, “Whatever it is you drink here, as long as it won’t poison me, I want it.” So to the Leaky Cauldron they went.

Later that night, as he was undressing a slightly inebriated and rather elated Hermione, Jasper asked, “Now that you know they don’t all hate you, does this mean you are going to leave me?”

Hermione could not summon even so much as a “Pardon?” for that. She just stared at him, dumbstruck and feeling that this was not a good conversation to be entering at this particular moment. She thought about picking her shirt back up, or just taking her bra off, because then maybe he would forget he asked.

“I know you’ve been hiding here,” he said, sounding not particularly upset — trying not to sound upset? Not actually upset? How to tell? — “And taking me today was an excellent test of the waters. If they were still angry about Ron, then dating a Muggle would certainly give them a chance to give you the cold shoulder.” He ran a hand over her exposed shoulder as if commenting on its actual coldness, along her collarbone. She still could not think of any words to say. “But they seemed perfectly nice. Happy for you. Happy for me. Should they be happy for me? Am I a real person in this, or just a prop?”

Oh, that did it. “A prop?” Hermione repeated, suddenly thinking of too many words at once. “A fucking prop? A bloody fucking prop? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think I have been fucking you every day as part of an elaborate plan to bugger off to my real life? Do you? You prat!” She reached for her shirt, determined to go somewhere her head would feel clearer and she wouldn’t want to cry so much. He stopped her, snatching it before she could get to it.

“I didn’t know you knew any bad words,” he said mildly.

She turned her horrified gaze on him. “Of course I know some bloody filthy words! When you ambush me while I’m tipsy and accuse me of – of – using you, when I am so bloody in love with you I can’t even think properly half the time. Ugh! I hate you.”

He laughed. Then he started apologizing. Then he took his pants off and apologized a great deal more. Later, in bed, he said, “One of my very small secrets is that I am bloody terrified. You have a whole world that does not include me, not even a very little bit. You could vanish into it, and I would have no way to follow you, no way to find you, and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the thought of this world without you.”

Hermione thought of what she had done to Ron, to her friends even. It did not look so different than that, from a certain angle. She had been so afraid of the pain she had caused that she had simply disappeared rather than face it. She had another world to go to, and she’d gone. She thought about what she had done to her parents: first, involuntarily, going to Hogwarts and becoming part of something they could never understand; and then later, worse, leaving them entirely behind. The truth was she had no idea how to live in two worlds, to really live in both of them at once. She never had done.

She turned on her side to face him, so their noses almost touched. “I’m bloody terrified too,” she said. “But I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to have to figure this out, how to make a life together in both worlds, so that it's ours, so that neither of us get left behind. Because I can’t stay only here forever. I do have a life there too. And… I’ll never be fully comfortable here, lying to everyone but you. But I can’t stand the thought of being there without you either. I don’t know where that leaves us.”

He kissed her nose and her teary cheeks. “With a bit of an underspecified problem, I think. Luckily, we are both extremely bright. I suspect it’s one with a solution, once we put our heads together.”

Their foreheads bumped together, on cue. “I think we ought to get married,” Hermione said, because she was so very bad at playing hard to get, and she had been thinking about it rather endlessly. It’s possible that the day was a test: but of Hermione, not of Jasper. A test of whether she could be herself, in the wizarding world, with him.

“I love when you’re decisive,” he said.

“I have a whole list of reasons, would you like to hear them?”

“Yes. But only because I’m sure they’re adorable, and I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the pleasure of reciting them. However in terms of maximizing efficiency, I must confess I don’t think your reasons will impact my response, and therefore I would not want you to waste your time, if in fact you don’t get any pleasure out of the act of telling me.”

“Oh, you don’t think I would be persuasive?”

“I am quite certain already that I want to marry you, and therefore your reasons are superfluous. But again, I am sure: adorable. So please do go on.”

She did go on, and on, but he did not seem to mind that either.


End file.
